Sunday, December 20, 2009
Seriously, guys, dating gives me ulcers.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Ivy the coupled
Sunday, September 6, 2009
I might as well date cardboard cutouts
The hardest part of breaking up is getting back your stuff...or the breaking up part (and yes, I quoted No Authority)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
What I wish I had known about dating my freshman year
Sunday, August 23, 2009
I might as well just date Jack Daniels
I don’t even know where to start on this one. Largely, I don’t know where to start on this one because I am completely hungover right now. My hypocrisy is only matched by my incoherence. The fact that alcohol is even such an integral part of the dating process that it had to be included in this book is mind boggling. It seems odd that somewhere along the way, people decided that it was a good idea to severely impair your judgment before meeting potential dates. Yet it has become commonplace. People often meet people at bars and parties, where they are drunk. They then go on dates which include cocktails or wine, where they are drunk. They then introduce their significant others to their friends by going out for, you guessed it, some drinks. Doesn’t anyone do good old fashioned cocaine anymore?
Alcohol was able to become the cornerstone of dating largely because, in moderation, it would actually be a fine idea. People are shy and fumbling when they first encounter someone whose sex organs they would like to touch. One or two drinks makes people less reserved, more talkative, and more open. But this is America, the land where you can never have too much of a good thing. Stores like Sam’s Club and Costco thrive because people absolutely need to buy 5 gallon drums of hummus and mayonnaise. When people realized one or two drinks could help the dating process, they fallaciously reasoned that 6 or 7 would help even more.
Well I just want to break it down for you. You’re dumb when you’re drunk. When you’re drunk, $30 worth of Taco Bell is a really good idea. Translate this to mating decisions, and your potential partner is the human equivalent of 5 chalupas, 6 crunchwrap supremes, and a bag of cinnamon twists at 4 in the morning. Now my next point. Dating is already hard for you when you are your coherent, intelligent self. People are confusing. Communication gets muddled. Intentions are often unclear. So, really, do you think things are less confusing, muddled, and unclear when you’re drunk? Half of society forgets how to even use proper English when they’re intoxicated (have you read some of those texts you’ve sent at 2 am?) Chances are they’re not going to remember the core communication principles essential for meaningful human interaction.
Now I know what you are thinking. You have probably met a guy, made out, exchanged numbers, and then actually had a blast on your first date. Yes. I have also done this, jerk, it’s not like I live in a cave. But does that actually happen often enough for you to believe meeting someone while severely intoxicated is a foolproof, or even desirable, method? I’m guessing it’s more akin to showing up at an open call for American Idol; It COULD end up in your favor, but is more likely to result in your humiliation. So you can exchange numbers with Johnny Backbar, and maybe you should just to increase your odds. But please admit to yourself first that you actually know nothing about him, and while he could share your love of classical music, he probably listens to Nickelback.
In and of itself, there is nothing wrong with meeting a potential date at the bar. There isn’t something evil about those four walls that makes everyone in them a poor mate. What is making everyone a poor mate is that they are pounding drinks faster than you can say “I’m afraid to be sober because I’m less interesting that way.” If you start chatting someone up mid martini during happy hour, and the conversation gets awesome, great. Unfortunately, how many times do you actually do that? I’d hate to break it to you, but no healthy relationship has ever begun with a wicked hangover and a discarded plan B box on your nightstand (notice how I don’t say ‘no relationship’...just no healthy relationship).
I have nothing against hangovers or birth control. What I am pissed at society about is the fact that the main way of meeting dates entails severely impaired judgment. Read that sentence over. Think about how true it is. Think about how it makes absolutely no sense. Now I’m going to restate it: the main way of meeting potential life partners entails you and them having severely impaired judgment. And you wonder why you’ve been going on a lot of first dates where you discover that you and the other person have nothing in common. That is because when you have ingested so much tequila that your grandmother is crying in heaven, you’re not thinking of finding out how smart or witty that person is. All you really make sure is that they’re not a cannibalistic serial killer. Then after you’ve drunkenly hooked up, you check up on their personality. Considering a good 75% of society actually has really terrible personalities, odds are not in your favor, drunkie.
Not to mention, oh, the beer goggles. I actually believe that beer goggles are a myth. Just because someone is a little blurrier than usual doesn’t mean you’re going to start confusing Nick Nolte for Jude Law. No, what you’re getting are beer standards. One drink into the night, you’re still looking for an attractive doctor who loves Hemingway and eskimo kisses. A few more drinks into the night, and that man still hasn’t shown up (he must be getting tanked at the bar across the street). But wait, you’re still lonely and/or horny! So either smart or attractive has to disappear from your list of standards, and if you’re as shallow as I am, smart is going first. Great, so already your standards have expanded to include drooling morons. Several more drinks into the night, and there are no available idiot hotties to speak of. But you’re drunk, and you’re starting to remember how your dad never loved you enough, and how no one ever holds you anymore. If your old standard of hotness was 9 or higher, it will fall to 7 or higher. 8 will fall to 6 or higher. If you were starting at a 6 to begin with, you should probably just go home at that point (but I know you won’t). The beer standards have kicked in. Pretty soon you won’t even be checking to make sure that they’re not a cannibalistic serial killer.
Which brings me to my next point. Shouldn’t the dating screening process be, gee I don’t know, an actual process? When you’re drunk, you tend to let just about anyone through the gates. Beer standards let all sorts of things through your, what I am sure is normally very rigorous, screening process . People who are less attractive than you’d like (let’s not be shallow, but you’re not doing an hour of yogalates a day for nothing). People whose personality is not compatible with yours. Even people who wear Ed Hardy trucker hats, and it isn’t even funny at that point, okay? DUI (dating under the influence) is just way too easy, but are the results really worth it in the end? It is like standing outside your local junior high with a pack of cigarettes and Jonas Brothers tickets. Yeah, you’re going to get laid, but it’s probably going to end up in tears, regrets, and maybe some lawsuits.
And now how do these little romps end up in tears, regrets, and lawsuits? Have you ever heard a song, “Blame it on the Alcohol?” Of course you have, they play it on repeat at your favorite bar. People realized they make bad decisions while intoxicated. But instead of trying to figure out some sort of scenario where they, God forbid, made better decisions, they decided to base an entire culture around the stupid things they do while drunk. It has somehow become highly amusing whenever someone makes a drunken mating fumble, as exemplified by the purported hilarity of hooking up with a fat chick. I’m obviously a big fan of laughing at your mistakes; it’d be far too depressing not to. But at this point we’re just glorifying stupidity, and I feel like Tila Tequila does that enough for all of us.
But beyond the stupidity, there’s something even worse. Alcohol has also become an excuse to hurt people’s feelings sans regret. People make drunken promises such as, “I’d like to take you out to dinner” or “I’ll give you a call tomorrow” or “It’s actually pretty big you’re just looking at it from a funny angle right now.” When these untruths are revealed, no one faces any consequences. They were under the influence, after all. People can lie, make false promises, and even slap you in the face as long as they have a drink in the other hand. Well last I checked a shitty person was still a shitty person, no matter what quantity of beer they had imbibed. In a society where we have literally made alcohol a “get out of jail free” card, we are facing some dire consequences. If no one is expected or even encouraged to be a kind and decent person, is anyone actually going to be a kind and decent person?
So congratulations, alcohol. Dating was already filled with confusion, uncertainty, and dishonesty. Nothing like a little liquid idiocy to spruce that right up.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Do you think Michael Phelps thinks "Hmm, bronze is just as good as gold..." NO. He only wants the best.
Dancing on tables is the easiest way to be a social climber
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Ok, now it's getting ridiculous
And the curse is back in full swing...
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Actually living generally means less writing.
Since mankind first created a definable system of time, summer has been known the world over for the notoriously short romance. This particular summer, mine came in the form of an adorably shaggy haired Irish lad from across the pond. Emphasis on SHORT, seeing as we actually only spent two nights together...but chemistry or pheromones or perhaps his panty wetting accent took a toll on me. While I’m normally realistic and even cynical, once in a while my heart and sex organs just won’t. shut. up. We stayed up till 9 in the morning two days in a row kissing and cuddling, and I was sure he was the love of my life (or weekend).
Irish lad who, for a drunken moment, I may have fantasized about running away to Dublin with, isn’t calling me. I will admit, I was heartbroken for a good 15 minutes. I stole a pint of State Fair Fudge ice cream from work, and sulked in the back room nursing it. A friend finally dragged me out last night through the promise of fun and cheap beer, and something amazingly serendipitous happened; right behind me while I was in line to do shots of Jack, was a different shaggy haired boy from, you guessed it...Ireland. I’d seen the ending to this movie before; but there is something amazingly comforting in knowing that there’s always another cute Irish boy just around the corner. I think I will be just fine, but my heart will still drop at the thought of the one who got away every time I dig into a bowl of Lucky Charms. Gosh, I love it when my rational side finally kicks the shit out of my romantic side.
Irish Guy Two who called me a model at the bar (awww, how sweet, I love lies!) did something Irish Guy One could not; he called me back. And he wants to, get this, see me on another occasion! Is this a shameless attempt to carry out the foreign boy summer fling I had all but given up hope on? Yes, yes absolutely. Is it much more awesome to have a back up Irish boy than it is to continue pining over the first one? I don’t think I even need to dignify that with an answer.
If I had to pick the hands down, absolutely best thing about being a young single woman, it would be not having to regularly shave your legs. But the second thing would have to be the fact that life is constantly moving. Yeah, the ride gets bumpy. And sometimes nauseating. But there’s always a new thrill around the corner, a new chance for experience, and a new opportunity for shameless fun. While I love my coupled gf’s, their tales of checking out a new Thai restaurant with the mister can get less than enthralling. They get stability, I get adventure. In a perfect world, we’d all get both, but let’s not be greedy; one or the other is a pretty fair trade.
So instead of using my tongue to lick my wounds, I’ll be using it to open mouth kiss a cute young Irish fellow. (Again). All I know about him as that he has an accent, he likes The Who, and he has an accent. And that’s all I really need to know to get pretty excited. Shameless summer fling with a foreign boy...take two.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Our lives have been as uninteresting as Irishmen in Chicago...
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
It's time to let society re-enter me
Friday, May 22, 2009
Make it stop
Monday, May 18, 2009
My cab driver hit on me
Sometimes there's just no moral...
The other day, after a series of unfortunate events, Ivy and I found ourselves in our high-waisted skirts and skinny belts eating excessive amounts of asian food for lunch instead of picking up cute hipster boys. Now, naturally, between bites of spring roles and pad tai, our conversation shifted to our blog. And the fact that I post maybe once a month now. So I decided that instead of relying on things that have been happening in my life currently (read: nothing. Ever.) I should probably just post anything.
Well, wouldn’t you know my luck, that night I actually got out of my slump. I met a boy at this classy lounge I was at with some friends (ok, it was a semi-dive bar with stripper poles and an hour of free drinks). Now, luckily for me, he was not a TOTAL random, but we shared some mutual friends. I was feeling rather pretty in my new American Apparel dress so I decided to start flirting and dancing with this boy. We danced all night, left the bar, went out for a little while longer and somehow he and I made it back to my place. We made out for a while, then fell asleep, woke up, made out, he left, then I went out to lunch with friends. He texted me a few hours after he left that day. And then again few hours after that to see what I was up to that night…before 9:00. JACKPOT! A guy who actually texted me back at a reasonable hour and was grammatically correct….obviously my thoughts drifted to when we would start dating in the near future. So today I was talking to one of our mutual friends and she said that he didn’t really talk too much about that night but did say something along the lines of “I wasn’t going to try to sleep with her… I just met her.” To which my immediate response was “AWW! That is SOOO sweet!” I then caught myself and realized what I had said and how pathetic it sounded.
Really, my standards have now come to “guys who won’t try to sleep with me before they know my last name?” Wonderful. This is precisely the problem I have with college “dating”. Hooking up has become such a norm that dating is pretty much being done backwards, if at all. It’s now: Meet, get drunk, hook up, repeat, possibly date.
A friend and I were talking today about the days when people actually “courted”. Those were the good old days-It was a whole, sweet, romantic process. Now it’s, “I’ve had 10 spiked kiddie cocktails (don’t judge, they’re delicious) come home with me, and if I'm lucky, maybe it'll turn into something."
Ok, who invented this? Why did they think it was a good idea? (Probably a man because it’s stupid.) I want dates and flowers and to feel special, (I also want an intelligent, attractive, sensitive, artistic musician) is that too much to ask for? Is it really that unrealistic to expect someone to want to get to know you even a little bit before they try to get in your pants? Now, I’m not saying random hook ups are not ok or that they’re bad, because they’re not, but does it really have to ENTIRELY replace dating. Think about it, how many of you or your friends have recently been on legitimate date? Now, how many have had random drunk hookups last weekend? I guarantee most fall in the second category. This time I have no words of wisdom; sometimes there’s just no moral to the story. It's just something that I've been pondering lately and have yet to figure out. But, I do know that I shouldn’t be relying on having someone NOT try to sleep with me so I can feel special. Seriously, how backwards did that just sound…
Finally back in the game....kinda,
Ally
Side Note
There is an exception to every rule
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
It's so hard when you're shallow as a shower
Friday, May 8, 2009
Ever had a song stuck in your head?
Monday, May 4, 2009
Ivy...the unqualified
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Put the kids to bed
"I've never slept with a guy I was close enough with emotionally to orgasm"
"Boyfriend is great...but he's just not really that experienced"
"I've never actually done anything more than dry hump"
Well my response was simply...Ladies, DIY! God put vibrators and showerheads on this earth for a reason. The resounding response was, "Ivy, you freak, it's weird to masturbate." Oh, right, my bad. It's much more normal to look for sexual pleasure with guys you're not even comfortable enough with to climax, or to have sex 100 times with the same dude without him ever getting you off.
But...that is just the female mentality. Certain things we accept we have to get from a man, such as orgasms, emotions, and validation...but why? We have the same creeped out attitude towards masturbation as we do towards single life. We'd rather be with a man no matter how unsatisfying it is, than have a possibly rewarding experience by ourselves. Maybe actual masturbation is a lost cause for 70% of women, but learning how to emotionally get yourself off might be worth exploring!
Why is it that we look to men, to relationships, for so many of the feelings we could get elsewhere during the dry spell? Fun, sexiness, and validation are all possible without a male partner, but we all seem to ignore this. When we're not with someone, and I mean ANYONE, we feel sad and mopey. But if we can get someone, and I mean once again ANYONE (even the creepy balding guy who hits on you in the elevator of your building, you know who I mean, he smells like Coolwater exploded on him), we feel as though our lives are infinitely better.
Well guess what. If your date is not stimulating (dual meaning fully intended) in the least...what are you really getting out of it? Bored. Unfulfilled. You know what you SHOULD do instead of getting involved with Mr. Filler? Go on Netflix and order yourself a copy of Love, Actually. Then remind yourself that a DVD made you feel more emotions in under two hours than some filler guy ever could. And if you're feeling really adventurous, let your mind wander to the idea of a You, Hugh Grant, Colin Firth three way (British men aren't always so polite).
If you want it done right you gotta do it yourself,
Ivy
Monday, April 27, 2009
I'm boring.
I just realized something. There IS a point where the single life can get as boring as repetitive as monogamy. The other side has consistent sex, acceptable affection, and eskimo kisses. Us singles, however, have unpredictable, spicy lives. But...really? I do the same thing every Saturday. How unpredictable and spicy is it then?
I think I might have to start doing lines of coke off of the backs of 13 year old Norwegian hookers (I picked Norwegian hookers because Norway is actually quite well known for keeping their prostitutes clean and STD free. I'd still be a practical and cautious coke addict). But short of hard drugs and paying for snatch, how the hell am I supposed to make my love life exciting again?
This entry was filled with many questions, and not nearly enough answers. Perhaps it is time to focus my energies on Eastern European politics, though you all know my thoughts on Eastern Europe...It's like a genital wart on the continent.
Oh my God someone give me something to blog about,
Ivy
Friday, April 24, 2009
Happy Birthday, Ivy
This is as hot as I am ever going to get. There's nothing left to grow into, my breasts won't get bigger until I'm pregnant, and I no longer have acne. From here on out it is slowed metabolism and MORE gray hairs. I sat there for a while kind of depressed that I'm not going to get any hotter, when I started expressing my deep seated and weird fear to my Guy Friend. And Guy Friend replied, "Well, no, you're not going to get any hotter. But you're over your awkward phase, and you're going to stay attractive till your mid-30's"
Well, thanks Guy Friend! You should've said mid-40's, but I'll take mid-30's (besides, by then they'll have invented some sort of super magic botox). I'm over my awkward phase, and things won't start to get (very) saggy for another 14 or 15 years! Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go mack on some hotties...after all, I only have a little over a decade.
Gray hairs look distinguished on some people!
Ivy
Monday, April 20, 2009
The principles of real estate are unfortunately not applicable to men.
Thankfully I didn't offer to eat my hat if I was wrong, or I'd have to be shoveling a gray knit cap down my throat right now. Ladies and gentlemen (a shocking number of gentlemen who read this, by the way), I got hit on at the library. While sitting at a computer dilligently facebooking and listening to my ipod, the young man next to me kept looking over. I thought I had something on my face. But when I got up to leave, sure enough he said he thought he knew me from somewhere (he didn't), and then invited me to a party (that didn't exist). He apologized later for the party not existing, via the email address I excitedly gave him, and asked me out for coffee.
Location, location, location...only works if you're looking to invest in some lakeside property. The boy I met at the library, the place women secretly fantasize about meeting potential mates, was a bust. He had poor grammar, used shorthand and smileys, and frequently texts me things like "sup" or "lol". There you have it, people. Someone you meet at the library has the exact same potential for being a dumbass as someone you meet while slamming tequila at the bar, except this time you can't blame beer goggles.
It got me thinking back to the last few guys I've dated, post my swearing off meeting guys while I was drunk. I met one who worked with a friend of mine...flakey jerk. I met one at a model united nations conferences...flakey, perverted jerk. I met one in a political science class...flakey, perverted, kind of psychotic jerk. The track record for my new crop of legitimately acquired mates was actually significantly worse than dudes I had met at bars, or worse yet, house parties. My life is scientific proof that he is not Mr. Right just because he is Mr. Right Place. So the next time you're 7 shots into the night, and find yourself oggling someone...proceed guilt free. People are just as likely to suck if you meet them at the library, and at least they look better when you're drunk!
Hoping to meet her future husband at McFadden's,
Ivy
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Is there a function which prevents attractive guys from reading my blog?
So God bless his heart he either was interested in my blogging passion, or at least pretending to be so that I would make out with him a little, but regardless...he asked me to write down my blog. Shit. Fuck. Damn. This thing is more of a love life killer than syphillis; All I do is rant about how terrible men are, and how I want to commit some sort of gendercide on them. Do I really want a cute guy in a tweed blazer knowing that man bashing is what I do for fun on the weekends?
Part of me thinks...damn straight! I have a lot of hot and awesome qualities, and this guy should have a sense of humor about this. The larger part of me was thinking..."Can I just lie and say I blog for hipsterrunoff.com?" Against my better judgement (drunkenly) I wrote down this blog. This very blog. Shit. Fuck. Damn. Cat's out of the bag...I am a psycho chick who will systematically kill off all of your pets if you forget to call one night.
Note the sarcasm, please...I guess my main point/rant is I question the motivation in basically lying about who we are to bag some hotties. Granted it's best not to spill out your darkest secrets about how you wet the bed until earlier that morning, but we go to amazing lengths to hide so many aspects of ourselves. Try not to do that annoying horse laugh. Don't talk about your undying hatred for Nickleback for half an hour straight. Don't tell him you have secret aspirations to be in a Dentyne ice commercial. Don't be too weird or too bland. Do NOT tell him you run a blog dedicated to how much you hate dating.
Don't, don't, don't doesn't leave a lot of room for do (THAT was a clever sentence)...we hold our federal government to a freedom of information, so why not our dating partners? If your entire interaction starts off with less transparency than the CIA, it's not going to be so pretty. So what...I'm a mix of things. I'm funny, intelligent, a good conversationalist...I'm always awkward, neurotic, and have the alcohol tolerance of a ten year old getting over mono. Why conceal the shit, when you can present it in a funny and enlightening manner! And one day, a few months down the line...he will find out that you run an anti dating blog, he will find out that you wrote about him, and he will think it is creepy. Might as well have a good laugh from the start.
What you see is what you get (and I know you're picturing me naked anyways),
Ivy